


Euphoria

by cal1brations



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Drug Use, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cal1brations/pseuds/cal1brations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not a regular thing by any means, Nate taking chems.</p><p>Sometimes, though, it’s unavoidable. He uses them when they’re needed, Nate won’t deny that. When there’s thirteen raiders circled around them with automatic machine guns, and the only thought that makes sense in his head is <i>Jet, where the fuck is my Jet</i>, and then the world goes slow and they have an actual, fighting chance in not getting blown to pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Euphoria

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title: Hancock Does His Chems and the Sole Survivor is Along For The Ride.

The chems aren’t forced on him, it’s nothing like that. It’s more like, sometimes, when he turns to speak to Hancock about this or that, and Hancock’s got the quantity and thinks that Nate has the need, he digs around in his coat before sliding a handful of whatevers into Nate’s hand, not even letting it disturb the conversation Nate is trying to have with him. Just a quick, “You look like you need this,” or something akin, and Nate finds himself with a fistful of whatever Hancock’s got handy and willing to share.

Hancock doesn’t even expect him to actively take them, Nate thinks, since he doesn’t often say any more about them, once he’s handed them over. He’s made comments about what he thinks Nate needs (and, according to Hancock, there are several things Nate needs that _aren’t_ chems—most of which are embarrassingly filthy in nature that make Nate grin at the thought of them, sliding his gaze in a sideways leer to his companion), but even then, it’s only because Hancock is, as he himself puts it, a “medicinal connoisseur” of sorts.

“You know, like the people that hoard lots of shit in their house and call it “collectables”?” Hancock tells him nonchalantly while they walking along the railroad tracks; Nate clears his throat awkwardly, because he may or may not be partial to… _collecting_. The fact they often need to stop so Nate can dump out some of the less valuable items in his bag certainly doesn’t help his case.

He catches Hancock gauging his reaction to his words, and Nate grins as he laughs an easy, “Shut it,” while Hancock adjusts his coat, laughing to himself fondly.

\---

Hancock is fairly open about his… _habits_ , but Nate realizes one night, as they’re looting through a now-empty raider camp, that he’s never actually seen Hancock in the _process_ of getting fucked up, only the aftermath, when he’s sated and high.

He’s seen when Hancock’s itching for something—pills, a shot, anything that will change how he currently, in the moment, feels. Which, Nate thinks, must be like complete shit, because Hancock is really only Hancock when he’s… taken care of, to put it bluntly.

Nate notices that Hancock’s been a little off since before they even stumbled upon (and, subsequently, took out) the raiders here—he thinks back to when Hancock last seemed normal, managed, and sighs as he notes it was probably the night before last; they’ve been running low on just about everything, so finding the camp was, more or less, a serious blessing.

Hancock is busy scooping out ammunitions by the boxful. When he finishes with one box, he fishes out some bobby pins and starts with another. It takes him a few tries to unlock, which is very unlike him, but Nate figures it’s because he’s coming off his usually-constant high, which has got to be rough.

He also hasn’t really said anything, so Nate figures he’s more or less shutting down in all departments.

He _definitely_ doesn’t need Jet right now, Nate thinks to himself bitterly—that’s all he has on him, of course, courtesy of Hancock when they were out in Sanctuary for a quick pit stop. He wipes his filthy hands on the sides of his equally-filthy trousers, looking around the decomposing building they’re in.

Raiders usually have some kind of pick-me-up, from what Nate has noticed. Sometimes a pack of Mentats, sometimes Jet or Psycho. Nate doesn’t really know all there is to know about chems, just knows that Hancock has said he likes stuff to make him feel… well, definitely better than he’s doing right now, Nate concludes as he glances towards Hancock, struggling very thoroughly with one of the lockboxes. He’s broken three bobby pins in the few moments Nate watches him work, so Nate figures something needs to be done. Very quickly.

He heads out to a different room, and after finding a newer pistol to shove in the back of his trousers and a sweet seventy-six rich cap-stash taped into the top of a desk drawer, he finally finds a remarkably-neat-looking chem cooler, kicked behind the same desk. He has to get down on his stomach to wedge it free, but it’s easy to unlock, and he fiddles with what he finds inside.

Two packs of berry Mentats. Jet. Some Buffjet, and Psycho, of course.

Nate packs everything but the Mentats away, hauling himself up to head back to the main room. Hancock is looking worse for wear, practically asleep over the lockbox in his lap, head bobbing tiredly. He definitely needs something, just to function, at least; Nate doesn’t really have reservations about giving him a firm nudge, holding the pack to him.

Hancock makes a grunt, slowly lifting his head. Nate shakes the pack in front of him, blister-packed drops rattling inside. Hancock stares at it for a long moment, trying to comprehend it, it seems. When he finally lifts his hands, they move slowly to pop out one, two, three… four? _Five_? Six-seven- _eight_ of the chems from their little blister packs.

He holds them in a hand, nearly drops them, but manages to cram them in his slightly-agape mouth, swallowing them dry, which is very impressive to Nate.

Nate takes the lockbox from Hancock’s lap, deciding to work on opening it while Hancock regains his senses. He’s not really sure how long the chems will take to kick in, but they’re not exactly in a hurry at this point. There’s beds here and even more supplies in one of the back rooms, so Nate doesn’t think leaving is a necessity, especially if Hancock is going to be all… fucked up, in the _wrong_ way.

At some point, not long after, Nate notices Hancock coming to life a little better. He lets out this sigh, like one that comes out after drinking a chug of purified water, and begins rattling off to Nate about this and that, he found some good stuff, something about ammo but, goddamn, where did he get _berry_ Mentats, he must really be looking out for him, huh?

“Got pretty bad without ‘em,” Nate tells him. Not condescending, just observant. Luckily, high-Hancock knows the difference Nate’s tone implies, and smiles. Not necessarily happily, but… almost knowingly, Nate guesses.

“Pretty bad,” Hancock repeats after a long pause, while Nate focuses his efforts on scooping up loose bullets from the bottom of the lockbox—there’s actually a couple bobby pins in here, too, which he picks out and pockets carefully.

Nate looks up from his work, looks at Hancock’s expectant face. “Pretty bad,” he repeats, a smile slowly growing on his lips, reassuring. “Not bad _enough_ , though. Don’t worry.”

Hancock smiles at that in turn, hauling himself up to his knees, which brings him super close to Nate; if he had a nose, they’d definitely be touching, probably squished together. Nate makes a breathless little laugh, surprised, and Hancock reaches to fist the front of Nate’s shirt, smirking before he kisses him, deep and rough.

Nothing else gets done, in regards to looting. In regards to Nate and Hancock, _several_ things get done (read: Nate).

\---

The first time Nate actually tries chems is because he is just too desperate to not fuck this up.

 _This_ being a meeting with a new settlement that’s popped up, way out in the middle of absolutely nowhere. It’s not near any city, barely even close enough to be located—the only reason Nate stumbled into the little, twenty-six person settlement is because Hancock managed to lead them way off track on the way back to Goodneighbor, towards a shortcut that got blocked off, apparently, in the six days they were up north for some good, old fashioned deliveries of the ass-kicking variety.

“What’s there to mess up?” Hancock tries to assure him while Nate tries, fruitlessly, to recite what he’s going to say; he just keeps messing it up. People may follow him, and he might be a “general” in some meager sense of the word, but talking to people is… not his strong suit, definitely. He even manages to piss off Hancock of all people, sometimes, when he says the wrong thing.

He’s a nice guy, but talking just isn’t his strong suit.

But Nate knows Hancock’s sitting on three packs of Mentats, and that’s just what he knows is, for certain, in Hancock’s coat pockets—he could have more. Mentats which, as Hancock has put it several times, make a person feel very _intellectual_.

“Hey,” Nate prompts, after Hancock has gone back to fiddling with his gun, something to keep him busy while Nate is psyching himself out, “Hancock.”

He glances to Nate at that, and Nate watches the expression on the ghoul’s face; something definitely gives. “Ouch,” Hancock grimaces, and, _yes_ , starts digging in his coat for one of those packs of pills, placing it into Nate’s palm nonchalantly, giving the guy a little nod, which could easily be mistaken for a number of other things.

He leans in close, tells him, “You _definitely_ look like you need a pick-me-up,” with a low whisper that makes goosepimples prickle on the nape of Nate’s neck. He pulls back quickly, though, grinning almost impishly as he waits for Nate to pop the chems into his mouth, which he does slowly, almost unsure.

But he feels when he swallows them. He feels the difference, almost immediately.

His head feels… clearer, might be the best word. He feels… better. It’s hard to explain, and he must be making a face at this new feeling, because Hancock laughs at him, giving him a fond slap on the shoulder and a gentle shove.

“Go ahead—you’ve got it in the bag, now,” Hancock tells him confidently, and Nate nods, because right now, with this feeling of being perfect and on top and undefeatable, he _definitely_ does.

And things actually do indeed go particularly well, Nate reports when he seeks out Hancock after all is said and done, a new settlement to add to the allied charter. Hancock grins knowingly at the news, and Nate watches him sneak down a couple more chems when he thinks Nate isn’t looking with the smooth, practiced motion of placing his warped fingers to his mouth, pushing the little tablets inside.

Mentats make people feel smarter, makes them smooth-talkers, better with their mouths.

Hancock shows him how good years and years of Mentats have made his mouth later that night, proclaiming an impromptu celebration for Nate’s chem-cherry being popped—oh, and the settlement stuff, of course, he adds with a wicked smirk as he makes Nate writhe.

\---

It’s not a regular thing by any means, Nate taking chems.

He isn’t judgmental of those who do—he can’t, really, because Hancock is his companion-lover-thing and that would be way too hypocritical. Plus, there’s not really a need to whine about “legal” and “illegal” anymore, with the whole “living in the result of nuclear fallout” kind of thing his life has become. He, more or less, just doesn’t care.

But getting addicted isn’t something on his to-do list. He doesn’t want to think about what could happen to them if they were both as bad as Hancock gets the few times when he’s coming down off a high, where he can barely speak, barely keep his eyes open, barely do anything but grunt and drool and look, in a very unsettling way, _feral_.

Sometimes, though, it’s unavoidable. He uses them when they’re needed, Nate won’t deny that. When there’s thirteen raiders circled around them with automatic machine guns, and the only thought that makes sense in his head is _Jet, where the fuck is my Jet_ , and then the world goes slow and they have an actual, fighting chance in not getting blown to pieces.

Hancock takes chems for his own reasons, his own demons that Nate doesn’t pester him about.

Things like that—reasons that can’t be changed, won’t be changed—just don’t really matter, in the end.

As long as he’s got Hancock helping him out, backing him up, _there_ for him, then Nate doesn’t care about the chems. They just become part of life, really. Making sure to loot chem coolers. Making sure he’s got something on-hand whenever possible, for him or Hancock.

That’s just what you do for people you care about.

That’s what you do to stick together.

\---

When they find caps, they just keep them for themselves.

Meaning that Hancock keeps what he finds, and Nate keeps the ones he finds. It’s easier that way, nothing messy to split up. Plus, even if one of them ends up with less, the other is usually happy to make up the difference if needed, buying things from vendors and whatnot. They’re partners, after all—looking out for one another and all that.

Hancock walks away from their last trip with a pretty penny (bottlecap?) indeed. Nate can hear the metallic sound of them sloshing in his pockets, in his satchel. Hancock doesn’t carry much usually, so it’s obvious, and Nate can’t help but notice the smug little smirk on Hancock’s face; definitely up to something, if he knows Hancock at all.

“What’s that?” Nate asks as they head into Goodneighbor. They’ll head back to Sanctuary later, but Hancock wanted to drop some things off, stay a few days to check on things, so Nate is happy to accompany him—Goodneighbor isn’t the worst place, at least. Nate wouldn’t feel right saying anything out loud about it.

Hancock looks to him, faux-innocence and all as he shrugs, adjusting his satchel over his shoulder. “What? Nah, nothing,” he assures, before shaking the strap of his bag, making the caps rattle loudly inside. “Just thinking about how I’m gonna spend all these—haven’t splurged in a while, y’know?”

“You’re not going to save them?” Nate asks, almost surprised. He doesn’t know what Hancock _usually_ does with his caps, so maybe it shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does.

“I barely spend anything else,” Hancock tells him, like it’s something obvious.

Nate doesn’t know what he should think (or say, for that matter), so he just hums some non-committal noise in reply, and they walk on to Goodneighbor.

\---

There’s only one single time Nate allows Hancock to cajole him into taking chems.

Well, it’s less like Hancock cajoling him and more like Hancock telling him about how great it feels to cum while high—particularly on Jet, which, Hancock explains to him, is certainly saying something, because he’s not really a “downer” kind of guy.

“It feels like it lasts _forever_ — _Christ_ , it’s so _good_ ,” Hancock rasps between filthy kisses, hands fisted in the front of Nate’s shirt as he straddles him. Nate, distractedly, kisses back, but he’s been thinking, and… well, they have a few Addictols in his satchel and a couple refreshing beverages, too, so if something _happened_ it’s not like they’d be fucked royally or anything—

Hancock is pausing. “What’s wrong?”

Nate licks his lips, which truly do feel different from Hancock’s, which is an odd thought. But, he’s apparently not subtle enough to think about such things mid-makeout, so he just blurts out, “What if we— do it like that?”

“The Jet thing?” Hancock asks, absolutely marveled; does Nate come off as such a stickler? He almost feels offended at the air Hancock seems to see him with, until he sees Hancock grin at him, sliding off his lap with a little shove as he kicks his satchel closer to the mattress they’re perched on, leaning down to dig through it.

He produces two of the familiar inhalers, but he doesn’t give one to Nate. He just sets them on the bed and kicks his satchel away before looking to Nate, almost sternly.

“We have to take it—y’know, near the end,” he explains, already unbuttoning his own shirt for the sake of getting it open, out of the way. “It doesn’t actually last as long as it _feels_ like it does, so you wanna do it at the end, so—“

“Got it,” Nate interrupts, because it’s not really a fucking science or something, it’s _literal_ cow shit. He pulls Hancock in for another kiss, long and deep, and Hancock groans a little against his mouth as Nate moves to flop onto his back, pulling Hancock over him.

Automatically, Hancock settles over him. They’re both in their trousers still, but it’s easy to tell they’re both hard; sometimes they end up going long periods without even a proper handjob, which sucks, but it’s part of the lifestyle, Hancock has mentioned before. Like being a ghoul suddenly makes him _wise_ or something—but, hey, the Mentats kind of do.

They kiss languidly while they move together, and it feels kind of weird, but it’s still _very_ good. Nate doesn’t have to worry about their noses smashing together, but he _does_ have to worry about jamming his nose into Hancock’s lack of—not a good feeling at all, they’ve discovered.

The feel of Hancock’s skin in general—if it can really still be called “skin”—is very odd. It’s almost leathery, but it’s not entirely skin. There’s pockmarks and slits of where bits have decomposed and melted off faster than others; really, Hancock and most ghouls are a frightening sight, but there’s always more.

Hancock’s hands sliding down Nate’s chest, fumbling with his trousers, is definitely part of that “more”.

“ _Mm_ , yeah,” Hancock nearly growls out as he frees Nate’s cock, looking down to see it jutting proudly from Nate’s hips, a little drip of pre at the tip. He smirks, but he doesn’t touch him yet. Instead, he moves to undo his own trousers, watching Nate watch him, laughing at the grunt Nate makes at the sight of Hancock’s dick, mumbling something about “just fucking do it” that makes Hancock snort.

Hancock holds their cocks together in one hand, letting his lips brush over Nate’s as the latter lets out a moan, hips bucking up into the touch. Hancock smiles at that, glancing down between them as he strokes the two of them together, with a grip that is merciless. With all their movement, their shared breaths and messy kisses as Hancock jerks them off together, Nate quickly feels himself toeing the edge, and he stutters out a noise that comes out as a warbled version of, “Hancock!”

“What’s that?” Hancock grunts against the strong line of Nate’s jaw, letting his lips ghost over the scratchy stubble there, which makes Nate writhe in delight. “You feelin’ it?”

“ _Fuck_ —yeah, _yes_ , I—“ Nate’s struggling to get out. His hand jumps from Hancock’s thigh, patting around on the mattress, feeling for the Jet inhalers he knows are there, somewhere, he’s really fucking close—

His fingers close around one, and he fumbles, bringing it up to his face. Hancock follows the action with his free hand, leaning in close enough that their foreheads are nearly bumping together, grinning as he lets out a little grunt; he sounds close, too.

“Take it—when yo-you’re—“ he pants out, and Nate nods vigorously in understanding as he bucks into Hancock’s touch again, a few more times, and his hand trembles violently as he takes the inhale, long and deep, while he feels his body shaking in orgasm—

It is so fucking _good_.

Nate feels himself making noise, but everything is so slow, he doesn’t know what _kind_ of noise, just that something is leaving his vocal chords. Hancock is still moving over him, thrusting and moaning, and he watches Hancock expertly take the puff from the inhaler, watches every single second of pleasure that crosses his features, just because he _can_ , like this.

Nate almost thinks the rest of forever might feel like this, so fucking _good_ and mellow and perfect, but something that Hancock did not think to tell him is that when Jet wears off, time seems to move _violently_ fast, as if trying to make up the slack.

Nate is panting, chest heaving, as Hancock slouches off him, to his right, still fucked up on Jet. Nate actually has to close his eyes, has to remember what breathing is actually like, not what it feels like when time seems a million times slower with Jet having hold on him, and he doesn’t remember to open them until he hears Hancock’s delighted groan, feels him stretching out beside him.

“So?” Hancock asks, and Nate is amazed—how is Hancock even able to speak after that? Nate knows he can’t, so he just nods jerkily, and feels Hancock chuckle beside him, breathing settling back into a normal pattern.

“Yeah, that’s how it is,” Hancock mumbles, settled in right up against Nate. It’s hot in this room, stuffy even, but Nate can’t even bring himself to care. He feels boneless and disoriented in the weirdest kind of way, and all he can do is lie there, listening to Hancock breathing quietly beside him.

After a long silence, Hancock turns towards him and says, “You’re good, right?”

Nate grunts before answering, “Never taken Jet like that before.”

Hancock laughs at that, very amused, giving Nate’s chest a pat with an open hand.

“You’ll be okay. It’s not gonna mess you up for too much longer.” The unspoken _say something if it does_ is very clear in Hancock’s tone, so Nate just nods, still dazed.

“Sleep,” Nate mumbles, and listens to Hancock chuckle as he feels him nestle up with him, throwing some shabby blanket over them that’s littered with holes, but it’s good enough—anything is good enough for Nate right now, anyway.

\---

Hancock pops two more Mentats than usual when they get up. Tells Nate it balances out the Jet from last night.

Nate chugs a refreshing beverage—better safe than sorry, he snaps at Hancock’s laughter—and two entire bottles of water before he even so much as bothers with getting dressed.

“Not gonna jive with me anymore?” Hancock asks as he slings his bag over his shoulder, watching Nate slide his holster into place.

Nate just rolls his eyes at the mock hurt in Hancock’s tone, giving Hancock a fond bump with his arm. “I think I’m gonna leave most of the chem-stuff to you,” he explains, then adds, very clipped, “ _Most_.”

Hancock grins, very nearly wicked. “It’s not a “no”.”

Nate smiles, shoving Hancock with a bit more force; they’ve got more things to do today than reminisce about Nate’s first time with Jet.

“ _C’mon_ —let’s head out.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just used "Nate" since that's the default... I've never written a fic for a game quite like Fallout, so this was kind of difficult. But, I really like Hancock, and I've always kind of been amazed with chems, how they work and what they are, so I just... did this. :')
> 
> Hancock mentions at some point that Mentats make him feel "intelligent" and idk, I sort of imagined it like... that drug from the movie Limitless (my fave). And since Jet slows down time, I imagine that to be more like depressants, like Valium or something. If that makes sense? Yup. As you can tell, I think this is all very interesting.


End file.
